W is for Welcome Home
by Dragon's Daughter 1980
Summary: Two stacks of release papers. Two patients. Five happy family members. One homecoming. [Sequal to P is for Prayer]
1. Don

W is for Welcome Home

By Dragon's Daughter 1980

(Written for the 2006 Summer Alphabet Challenge)

Disclaimer: Other than being a devoted fan, I don't have anything to do with Numb3rs.

Author's Note: This story is a semi-continuation of 'P is for Prayer.' Thank you all for the kind reviews and readership.

* * *

Don wobbled unsteadily as he tried to get out of the backseat of Charlie's car by himself. He had a foot on the ground, but as soon as he put weight on it, his knee turned to gelatin. Just as he resigned himself to falling onto the pavement, in clear violation of his doctors' orders, a supportive hand appeared to grasp his, one with far more strength than he had at the moment. He looked sheepishly at his father's knowing expression. 

"You know, Donnie," said Alan conversationally, bracing his son's shoulder with one hand, half-holding, half-shoving him back into the car, "one of the conditions of your getting out of the hospital so soon was that you would take it easy."

"I am," Don replied meekly, clinging to the car frame. But he knew there was no way he was going to escape the coming lecture. '_After all_,' he grumbled to himself, '_it's not like I'm in a shape to walk anywhere by myself any time soon, let alone run._'

"That means," Alan continued as if his son hadn't spoken, "beyond following all the doctor's instructions, there will be no stubborn, idiotic attempts to do things by yourself until you're better. Understand?"

"Yes, Dad," he sighed. His father nodded firmly, "Good." Charlie appeared, tucking the car keys back into his jean pocket. He took in the scene, Don struggling to get out of the car and their father trying to make sure his eldest didn't end up collapsing on the driveway pavement.

"Is he being difficult?" the mathematician asked their father jokingly, already reaching for Don's other arm.

"Hey." He glared at his younger brother. "I am never difficult."

"You, shush," their father said sternly to him before looking at Charlie, "You, get over here and help." Charlie quickly obeyed, helping their father carefully ease Don out of the car.

"Dad," he said as soon as his older brother was standing, "go ahead and get the door."

"Are you sure, Charlie?" asked Alan with a degree of concern in his voice, his arm still around Don's waist. "It's a bit of a walk."

"No, I'm fine."

"Yeah," said Don, adding his voice to his brother's, "We'll just take it slow." Neither of the other men missed the strained tone of those words. The agent was in pain, no matter how much he tried not to show it. "Go on ahead Dad."

The patriarch of the family reluctantly withdrew his arm. Immediately, Charlie shifted his position, tucking himself closer to his brother so Don could lean on him. Alan smiled to himself at the level of trust being so openly displayed before he turned to walk up the driveway to the house.

Slowly, laboriously, Don and Charlie began to make their way to the front door. At first, with his legs so unsteady, Don was leaning on his brother for balance. But as he got used to walking, his strides became longer and sure. That is, until he forgot about his injuries and took a normal length stride. The burning ache in his torso became a sudden searing pain that made him hiss in distress and lean against his brother so much that Charlie nearly toppled over.

"Don, let's stop," the young man suggested. His older brother shook his head stubbornly.

"Nope, Chuck." Don started to shake his head and quickly decided that it was a bad idea when the world took on a slight tilt and his head started pounding.

Charlie ignored the remark, "You're in pain."

"Am not," Don said tersely. Charlie rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"You do know that if I decide to let you go right now," Charlie muttered quietly, "you'd end up on the pavement?"

"Yeah," replied Don smugly, "but if you did that, I know Dad would kill you." Charlie glared at him, "Shut up."

* * *

Amita met them at the front door, pointing towards the living room. She closed her cell phone with an irritated sigh. 

"The delivery truck's lost," she said. "They'll be here in an hour, if we're lucky. So we're going to have to put you on the couch for now. Sorry Don."

Don shook his head sharply to dismiss the inconvenience. By now, he was gritting his teeth to hide the amount of pain he was in. But he still managed a weak grin when he saw his fiancée standing in the living room, fluffing a pillow on the couch. It was just so…domestic. If it didn't hurt, he would have laughed.

Robin smiled at him, even though she inwardly fretted at how pale he looked. She took a few steps forward and extended her hands to him, silently offering to take Charlie' place as Don's human crutch. The mathematician let her, panting slightly at having to bear his brother's heavier weight. Robin carefully guided Don to the edge of the couch and pulled a warm blanket over him once he lay down. She sat down on the edge of the couch, her hand reaching up to stroke his face.

"Hi sweetheart," he said weakly, once he got his breathing back under control. He touched her smooth cheek and she smiled, just for him.

"Hi there, handsome," she said back. "I'm going have to get back soon, but I just wanted to make sure you were settled."

Amita appeared with a glass of water and a neon orange prescription bottle, both of which she handed to Robin. He groaned, knowing that arguments would be useless when it was one against four. '_It was easier when it was just me against Dad and Charlie_,' he thought, watching her unscrew the childproof cap and shake out two pain pills. She put the bottle on the living room table and turned to him. '_Not that I ever won those battles either._'

"Take them," she said, putting the pills into his hand. "Don't even argue. You need them." She handed him the glass of water.

"How can I say no" he asked, teasing her, "especially to such a beautiful lawyer?"

His comment elicited a small smile of amusement from her, easing the worry lines on her face. She caressed his cheek after he swallowed the pills. "Get some sleep. I'll be back tonight, okay?" She leaned down and kissed him briefly.

"Okay," he caught her hand as she stood up, "Don't work too late." She laughed and bent down to whisper in his ear.

"It's a bit early for that, Agent Eppes," she chided softly. "But I assure you," her voice became low and sultry, "as soon as you're well, neither of us will be working late." He smiled, closing his eyes. His last conscious memory was of her hand gently stroking his arm in a long caress.

* * *

His first clear thought was that his mother was comforting him through a fever, her gentle hands running across his face and down his right arm. He opened his eyes, half-expecting to find his mother smiling by his bedside. Even in the dim light of the darkened living room, he instantly recognized Robin's tall, graceful body, sitting on the edge of the couch. 

"Hi handsome," she said softly, when she saw he was awake. "Feeling better?"

"Hurts," he muttered, referring both to a building headache and a throbbing in his chest.

"I know," she murmured, running a hand across his forehead, "You should've had another dose about an hour ago."

"Don't want to sleep more," he managed through his sleep-muddled mind. The headache was threatening to become a migraine at any moment if he didn't sit up.

"Okay," she said, slipping off the couch to kneel by his side.

"Is he awake?" came Charlie's voice from somewhere off to his left…no, to his right… Someone switched on the lamp, the sudden light making Don wince and blink. Amita quickly apologized and threw something over the appliance, immediately dimming its effect. Once he could see again without squinting, he recognized his brother's jacket draped over the lampshade.

"Yes, he's awake," said Robin. "Help me get him up, will you?"

Working together, his family managed to get him sitting upright on the couch without causing him too much pain. Almost as soon as he was sitting, his father placed a tray of chicken soup in front of him.

"Eat," said the patriarch. "And don't argue." Don managed to maneuver a shaky spoonful of the warm broth without spilling it all over himself.

"Beats hospital food," he said after he swallowed. His father smiled, "Good. I expect you to have several bowls then."

Robin settled down next to him, a case file in hand. She angled it so he couldn't read the papers, but her shoulder was gently touching his. He leaned into the contact as he continued to eat.

"Dodgers versus Mariners, tonight," said Charlie, settling down on the floor, laptop in his lap, already spreading his students' papers out in an academic equivalent of a banana peel on the floor. Amita settled in the chair next to him, her students' papers in a neat stack in her lap. She muttered something to Charlie, provoking an outburst of 'I am not disorganized!' Alan carefully sidestepped his youngest son's organized chaos and set a platter of cheese-drenched nachos on the coffee table.

"No, Don, you are not allowed," his father said even before Don opened his mouth to ask. "Does anyone mind if we watch the ballgame?" After receiving a chorus of approval, he switched on the television and found the right channel. Even though they were 'absorbed' in their work at first, everyone eventually gave up the pretense of working and started cheering on the home team. Don leaned back against the couch, his hand finding Robin's, their fingers interlacing. He smiled as she leaned forward, dark hair tumbling off of her shoulders, "Now that's a foul!"

"Now that's biased," remarked Alan. "He didn't trip, the guy shoved him." Charlie and Amita exchanged looks, but stayed silent. The mathematician had analyzed the posture of each batter and come up with a 'fairly accurate prediction that the Dodgers will not have a good night.' Alan just about chucked the suduko book at his youngest. Amita had swatted in his general direction. After that, Charlie had, wisely, remained silent.

As the current player ran the bases, Don smiled. He wasn't the type to openly admit that he needed his family, but he did. He needed the teasing, the fussing, the caring, and the love that his father, brother, and now, sister-in-law and wife-to-be gave him. Charlie made some remark or other that earned him a glare from his father and wife. Robin leaned over to adjust the blanket across his lap, giving him a breath of her heady perfume. She settled back in her seat, but not before she planted a brief kiss on his lips. He heard his father chuckle with anticipation and mentally rolled his eyes for the coming lecture about grandchildren. Yeah, he was definitely home.


	2. Megan

W is for Welcome Home

By Dragon's Daughter 1980

(Written for the 2006 Summer Alphabet Challenge, Round 8)

Disclaimer: Other than being a devoted fan, I don't have anything to do with Numb3rs.

Author's Note: This story is a semi-continuation of 'P is for Prayer.' Thank you all for the kind reviews. Sorry I couldn't post yesterday; my Internet connection went on the friz.

3.14-3.14-3.14-3.14-3.14

"Larry, I—" she began when the car came to a stop and she realized where they were.

"No, no, no," he said, waving off her sentence as he got out of the car. "The doctors forbid you from strenuous activity for the next two weeks, at least. During that time, I see no reason why you should be alone."

Undoing her seatbelt, she leaned back in her seat with a quiet sigh. She firmly quashed down a bout of irritation. It was not his fault that her parents and sisters had all converged on her at the same time to smother her in care, as if that could make up for years of frostiness. Then again, it wasn't their fault that they tried too hard. She knew that sometimes it took a near-death experience for people to appreciate just how precious and fragile life was, and the need to cherish each other while it was still possible. And it wasn't precisely like she was fully capable of fulfilling her everyday tasks without assistance the first week she was out of the hospital. Walking even a few steps tended to leave her winded; standing for an extended period of time left her exhausted. She needed her family's help, but they were very good at overdoing things, swinging from one extreme to the other.

But either way, the end result was that she was starting to meet any offer of assistance, or order that she not do certain things, with snappishness. She was an independent woman who was used to fending for herself. The realization that she could not was one that left her frustrated and short-tempered. Furthermore, with someone by her side almost twenty-four/seven for the past week, fussing over her, asking how she was feeling, and generally waiting on her hand-and-foot (which she saw more as an irritant than anything else), she hadn't had a chance to come to terms with what had happened in the warehouse. She still needed time to 'process' it, quiet time when she could struggle with herself and accept what had happened and move on, time that was uninterrupted. The whole time she was at her childhood home, she either had concerned relatives hovering over her, family friends gawking at her, her nieces and nephews 'playing' with her, or a combination of the three. It had taken all of her control to maintain her good nature.

"Megan?" he asked, concern clearly evident in his voice, "Are you all right?" While she had been musing to herself, he had apparently unloaded the wheelchair and opened the car door, waiting to help her get out of the car. She yanked herself out of her thoughts and smiled briefly, "Yeah. I'm fine. Help me out?"

"Sure," he said, reaching into the car, one hand slipping behind her shoulders and the other moving to slip under her knees. She gently pushed him back and smiled again, genuinely touched by his kindness.

"No, Larry," she said, pivoting around on the smooth leather seat, "I don't need you to carry me into the wheelchair, but I do need you to support me, okay?"

"All right," he said, immediately moving back to give her room. She wondered again how she had been so lucky to find a man like him, willing to concede that she needed her independence, dignity, and space, even when she was weak. He held out his hands for her to grasp, or to catch her if her knees suddenly decided to give way. That had happened once or twice at her childhood home; it had caused a fury of concern and scolding from her family.

Mindful of her injuries, she gingerly stepped out of the car, her hands quickly finding his. She was shocked to find herself trembling as she stood; apparently the plane ride back to Los Angeles had taken more out of her than she had expected. But he was there, immediately wrapping one of his arms around her waist, supporting her patiently as she traveled the short distance between the open car door and the wheelchair. She sank into the contraption with a frustrated sigh.

"I hate this," she muttered. He knelt down in front of her, "I know, Megan. But it's only for a brief time, a drop in the ocean of your lifetime. We'll get through this, together." He squeezed her hand and she suddenly felt tears threatening.

"Thank you," she whispered. He touched her cheek gently and used his thumb to wipe away a tear. "It's my pleasure." He didn't say anything for a long moment, just stroked her face gently, studying her. "I'm glad that everything has turned out well. For you, for us." Then he got to his feet, shut the car door and returned to her.

"I'll get your bags once you're settled," he told her. She sighed mentally to herself, sternly lecturing her growing temper that his care for her was much different than her family's care. He actually listened to what she needed, as opposed to her family who just assumed. She would not take out her bad week on him. Her neck was starting to ache at the amount of emotional control she was exerting to stay calm. She listened to his voice, trying to relax, as he pushed her through the complex. By the time they had reached his apartment, she had managed to get her agitation back down to controllable levels.

"How did you know that my flight was today?" she asked. She had been so eager to get away from her family that she had completely forgotten to call someone and let them know that she was coming back to LA. When she had realized that in mid-flight, and remembered that she didn't have her cell with her, she had simply decided to hail a cab and call him when she got home. So she was pleasantly surprised to see him waiting for her at the baggage claim, her luggage already located and loaded onto a trolley. But someone must have told him.

"Oh, that," he pushed open his door and came to push her wheelchair in, "um, your sister, Caroline, I believe, called and told me. I gave her my number, um,"— he paused to maneuver around a corner — "just before you left."

"Oh," she gritted her teeth and told herself that she would not be angry with him for his and her sister's foresight. It had saved her a lot of hassle and pain and exhaustion. She should be grateful, rather than annoyed. As the second youngest in the family, Caroline had always been the most in-tune with her out of everyone in the family, but since Caroline couldn't chase away everyone, she had settled for sticking by her baby sister's side as often as she could, running interference with their parents and two elder siblings. Caroline had always been good to her, always been there for her, always looked out for her. She should be appreciative of her sister's kindness and his too. But since she couldn't seem to get herself to achieve a state of thankfulness, she settled for being in control of her emotions.

"Would the couch be all right for you?" he asked thoughtfully.

"Yes," she said, mentally grumbling that it would probably do a number on her back and neck, but those weren't where her injuries were. She accepted his support again as she stood and they made their way to the couch.

"I figured that since you seem to be a little restless that you'd want to read and this room has the best light," he said, as they walked, "But if you want to sleep, I have the bedroom ready for you."

'_See?_' she chided herself, '_He is in no way a thoughtless man. And am I really that obvious that I'm losing control?_'

"Where will you be sleeping then?" she asked as she sat down. "With me?"

"Uh," he drew away, his face flushing pink, "I'll be, um, sleeping on the couch."

"It's all right," she smiled at his gentlemanly manners, "I'm sure the bed is big enough for two. And I trust you." That voicing of trust on her part made him blush.

"If you're sure," he said after a moment. She nodded, "Yes, I'm sure." He cleared his throat and gestured at a pile of magazines stacked neatly on the coffee table, "I thought you might want to read something non-work related. Since you've mentioned that you're interested in historical sites, I thought that you would enjoy reading the Smithsonian."

"Yes," she grinned, "I will. What's this?" She touched a stack of magazines with white covers on the end table. Next to them were two piles of ring binders.

"That," he replied, "is something that would probably have somatic effects on you. Those are several of the science journals Charles and I supplement our livings by. I know that at times, I can barely make it through some of the articles without indulging in dreams."

"Ah," she said, wondering if he had happened to publish anything in the recent issues that she could read.

"Do you want some water? Tea? Milk?" he asked.

"No, I can get it myself," she said, already scooting to the edge of the couch and preparing to push herself up into a standing position. He was there in a second, a gentle hand on her shoulder, "No. Let me get it for you."

"I can do this," she said, feeling her exasperation rising. She hadn't left her obnoxious family behind to come home to this.

"Your doctors said that you need to rest," he replied.

"I've rested enough," she struggled to rein in her temper. "I can make the walk to get a glass of water, okay? You don't need to cater to my needs."

"You will let me take care of you," he said stubbornly, "And that is non-negotiable, Megan."

"Larry," she said, angrily, "I don't want to be cuddled. I've spent the past two weeks being cuddled by my family and I am sick and tired of being treated like broken china! I want people to stop acting like I'm on my deathbed because I'm not! I'm not deaf, either, for goodness sake! Everyone there was either looking at what a nutcase I am to be working for the Bureau or thinking that I am an invalid who can't do anything by herself. I have lived and taken care of myself for the past two decades without anyone's help and I think I'm doing a damn fine job of it. I know what I'm doing every day and what I risk and I don't need anyone to tell me that. And despite my injuries, I am not an incompetent fool who's playing 'cops-and-robbers.' I'm not going to shatter if anyone asks me about my work! And I am sick and tired of being told what not to do and treated like I don't have an ounce of common sense or dignity!"

At the end of her rant, she flushed with shame. Here was her boyfriend, a kind, devoted, and thoughtful man, who had a very busy life of his own to live, who was there at the airport to take her home after a very long trip, who was letting her move into his bachelor pad until she recovered, who was standing in front of her with a calm, nearly Zen-like expression while she yelled at him for no reason. What was she thinking? He sat down on the couch beside her and took her hand, his thumb stroking the back of her hand.

"Megan," he said calmly as if she had not just been throwing a temper tantrum a second before, "it's very clear to me that you are a competent, brilliant woman who excels at a very demanding job. I assure you that I am proud of your abilities, not shamed by your choice of an honorable profession. Indeed, there are still days when I find myself marveling at how such a beautiful, confident woman has chosen me to accompany her on life's journey. Your family has clearly failed to give you space, space that you need. I understand that. Post traumatic stress in your situation is perfectly understandable." He tucked a stray strand of her hair back behind her ear. "I will give you your space, as long as you promise me that you will talk to someone about what you are feeling, whether that is with a professional or a friend or me. As for your care, there will be no more cuddling. But that does not exclude sensible concern for your health."

She nodded, trying, and failing, to hold back her tears. What had she done to deserve such a good man in her life? His hand moved to caress her cheek, again wiping away her tears. "Oh Megan, I am so glad and thankful."

She smiled slightly, knowing all the unspokens behind that simple statement.

"So am I," she replied, her voice choking on a sob. He drew her into an embrace, letting her cry on his shoulder. In the back of her mind, she knew that this outburst had been building up since the day she woke up in the hospital, disoriented but assured that he was there for her. Clinging to him, she felt him kiss her head and heard him murmuring over and over, "Let it out, Megan. I'm here, let it all out."

She didn't know how much time had passed, but her tears eventually exhausted themselves and a comfortable silence descended. She felt him kiss her forehead again before he whispered, "Do you want to get some rest?"

She nodded weakly, feeling the soft cotton of his shirt rubbing against her cheek. She inhaled his scent and relaxed a little bit more. He gently drew her up and they started down the hallway together. She was breathing heavily when they reached the doorway to the bedroom, but he didn't say anything, letting her brace herself against the doorframe. When she nodded again, he came to support her to the soft mattress and crisp white bed sheets. He opened one of the drawers in his bureau and shook out a large long-sleeved shirt

"If you want to wait, I'll be right back with—" he began.

"No," she said, holding out her hand for the piece of clothing, "it's fine." He handed it to her, "Then I will go get your luggage while you change."

"Larry," she said as he turned to leave. He paused in the doorway. "Could you, could you stay the rest of the day? I mean, here, with me? If that's not inconvenient?"

"That's not a problem at all," he replied. "I'll be right back." She nodded, watching him go. After he was out of sight, she began to undo the buttons on her blouse. She had trouble lifting her arms without feeling pain and had stuck with shirts and blouses since she had gotten out of the hospital. It took some maneuvering, but she managed to change out of her clothes and into his. When she was done, she slipped under the covers to wait for him.

As if on cue, he appeared in the doorway, carrying a glass of water in one hand. He sat down next to her, on the edge of the bed.

"You've probably missed this," he said softly, tipping the pills he was carrying in his free hand into hers. "Sensible concern," he reminded her, their eyes meeting. She nodded and took the pills, swallowing them with the water he had brought her.

"Now, get some rest, okay?" he said, adjusting her pillow as she lay down. "I'll be here." She nodded, feeling the painkillers taking effect. She watched him circle the bed and then lay down next to her, drawing her into a gentle embrace. She snuggled closer to him, her eyes closing as sleep claimed her. She relaxed, feeling the tension draining out of her as serenity finally found her. There was nowhere in the world she would rather be. This was home, here, in the arms of a man who loved her for herself.


End file.
